One in the Same
by Passionworks
Summary: For TrueThinker. Her father called her a prodigy. Her mother thought she was a monster. Neither were right and neither were wrong... Oneshot rated for mature sexual content.


**Author's Note: This is dedicated to TrueThinker, who told me that 'prodigy' and 'monster' are synonymous. Thanks for the inspiration! This one's for you!**

One in the Same

By: Passionworks

_**Prodigy**__ (n): Marvel, portent, miracle, monster, enormity, spectacle, freak, curiosity… -__**child prodigy**__, genius, gifted child, boy or girl wonder._

_-Webster's New World Thesaurus, Third Edition, 2003_

_Azula…_

The name is like honey that sweetens the sugary palette. The true essence of its existence is a gift, rare and priceless. It is a luxury worth more than every gold piece, every rose of passion that asks for her hand in everlasting love. It is pure in every aspect, like a flawless face.

_Every inch of her, every curve, every crevice._

Her skin is a perfect tone, not too pale, but then again, not too dark with the retaliating burns of the sun as it beams upon her.

Her hair is glorious, almost black like the ashes of fire's unholy trials. It is cut at a perfect length down her shoulders, covering them like a blanket on a cold child. When it is up, she displays her royal stature: the mark of the princess.

Her body is nubile, sexually impressive considering her age. Her breasts hold dignity above her ribs. They house the symbol of her existence, the milk that nourishes the delicate child of the next generation.

Her arms and legs have nothing in excess, just toned muscle; a superior bender of her driven element. Her hands and fingers hold nails like bloody daggers. They are all even, perfectly polished, never cracked or flawed.

But the admiration resides on her face. Lips so full and voluptuous that the kiss would be like ecstasy, the chocolate so dark that it almost seems immoral. Her eyes are striking. The gem of topaz scintillates in the sun when she stares into the dawn of day.

Physical attraction is appetizing, sensual and delicious. Her nudity is revealing; so innocent and fragile behind the flesh of her purest feminine sex.

The whispers of the night, the chirpings of the prowlers, animals that lavish in the moon's quaint brilliance radiate in the open fields of those who go untouched. Ripe and fertile, just waiting to be plucked like the forbidden fruit of lust.

_Words speak nothing of this. It is marvelous, tastefully beautiful, wet like the water that quenches the thirst of desire._

Tender hands caress her figure, fingers trace each bend: her breasts of maternal duty, her stomach that expands with conceived life, her sex where it all begins.

Blankets flail and lips lock in a stranglehold so tight that air is virtually nonexistent.

And she holds her breath, oxygen dead in her lungs. Every inch of his love fondles with her innards; it tears her hymen, the barrier of innocence breaks without even the slightest infliction of pain.

She gasps. The sound is angelic, seemingly ritualistic. She feels it bubbling, pushing and pulling. It is the tide, the moon bending the seas with a constant devotion.

_And that is what love is. It lasts all eternity, transcends lifetimes, and shatters the hurdles of scientific reasoning._

The orgasm is completely real. It marks the climax of physical arousal, spent like a dime-a-dance.

Sweat coats her skin, salty and bitter. It spits from her pores, giving her the feeling of floating in shared fluid on her own bed.

A kiss is all she earns in return for his pleasure. Like magic, he leaves while her eyes are closed, leaves her in the midst of tossed sheets.

_Leaves her broken, irreplaceable, damaged._

She wakes so cold and alone. She feels the impurities mingling between her trembling legs.

She is dirty; so dirty that bathing has no effect. All the soap, all the water, nothing can rinse her sins away.

_This is the absolution of passion, the making of love._

Unforgiving, forbidden.

Loneliness, no shoulder to cry into, no hand to hold. Mental anguish is the only stronghold she has left.

Questions fly past her; no answers are reachable, as to be expected on the morning after.

Momentary pleasure has degraded her proud name.

But _whom_ has she ultimately betrayed?

Her father sits upon the royal throne, a broken trend to the birthrights of a first-born son. He is mighty, but conniving, pockets full of deceptions, lies never to be revoked.

She reveres him, adores him. She fawns over his uncanny ability to have his way, something she gleefully received in the process of her own fertilization. This genetic prowess has marked her character: fear that is hell bent on subordination from others. And she plays the leader, almost like a theatrical production. Her devotion to her allies is nothing but a skillful façade. Her consideration and care for the innocent is only at her benefit, her father's as well.

_She's a true prodigy;_ her father applauds, _just like her grandfather for whom she's named._

Yes, the prodigy. The Blue Dragon. The holy child. Ozai's angel, his masterpiece conceived by his released sperm, his second-born, his rightful heir.

_His puppet…_

She is bound to him by supple thread. She dances listlessly to his every whim, limp and tired, dead and inanimate.

_He uses her…_

Manipulates her like a servant, a lowly messenger, a peasant.

_Lives to love, loves to leave…_

He eradicated her mentality so long ago, warped her into a demon.

_Just like a lover that robs the precious physical innocence from a young woman._

Similar to that of a religious convert, she exists by ritual, freedom forgotten like a bronze piece in a peasant's pocket.

And she asks herself: is it the toil of misery that bequeaths the perfections of a prodigy? If that is valid, then is it worth it in a holistic sense?

Is this who she really is? One who follows the orders of her superiors, her elders? One who sends the message of revival to a banished sibling?

One who conforms to her father just for his praise, for his seat on the palace throne?

Pregnant silence bewilders her, for she knows the answers to her inquiries.

_She is a leader, an alpha, a dominant._

She serves her nation by ruthless demand, waited on in an orderly fashion. Not a second wasted like water down a drain.

It is the now that matters most; her barked orders are of the utmost necessity.

Yes, this is liberation; a bird that flies far. Her wrists are tied no more.

But this is also betrayal, and that is what hurts most of all.

_It is a lie, a compulsive lie._

_What is wrong with that child? _Her mother's question is a stab in the back.

From the moment Ursa met her eyes, scorn and detestation masked the miracle that was childbirth, the miracle that was life.

And since then, her mother's embrace was an act of mockery, separation its true ally. Compliments to her perfections did not leave her mother's red lips. Congratulation was seeped only to her brother, the celebration of psychotic mediocrity.

And that shaped the boy into the human being that he is now; a dignified man that rules his nation on the promises of love and peace. The war on closure forever.

The stillness between the blood relatives morphed her into a monster, one that always lies and manipulates. Raised by a burning hand that idolizes suffering as a teacher, she is cold-blooded.

_My own mother thought I was a monster, _she whispers to herself. It gives finality to life's meaningless trek.

And one night, on one chilly night, she was abandoned. Not one warm word of goodbye to wipe away the tears, not a simple act of kindness. The woman wrapped herself in a dark cloak and disappeared like a ghost that only stirs after dusk.

This animosity fills the monstrosity to its very peak, growing and growing.

_Never ending…_

Is that not life in the maternal uterus? Is that not a baby that feeds from the swollen breasts of motherhood?

Is that not her purpose as a woman, the princess of the Fire Nation?

_Is this an accident of her sex?_

Life is not an accident, nor is it coincidence. Each soul that is intertwined with the earthly attachment of mortal flesh has a purpose: an act of servitude to the Creator.

And now the question: Is it her duty to be the prodigy that feeds her father's flame? Or is it to be her mother's ruthless monster?

She is now ripped in two like teeth into flesh, two halves of one whole. The morality of choices humans make is almost never at the front of the head. Conscience mingles deep at the bottom of the pit, usually left forgotten and misplaced.

A demon sits upon her left shoulder. His crooked fork pierces her, the tips poisoned with temptation: the toxin of the forbidden fruit. He pleas for her to play the prodigy.

_The fire is in your heart,_ he taunts coolly. His voice is gruff, almost erotically intoxicating. _It is your element and just like the intercourse, the sensation itself is rewarding and painless. Fire is destruction and virtue is meant to be broken by two bodies damned to fall in love._

But a holy angel resides on her right shoulder. He glows with a heavenly cleanliness; the cross of his sins is free of atrocious blood. He gently tugs at her collar to garner her attention.

_The acts of the world are all connected; everything is connected, physically and spiritually._

_The monster in you can be tamed, _he says, _it can be fruitful and bear more lives. The flames inside all firebenders are symbols of birth. Reproduction is beginning in your womb._

_Just like fire, it can be nourished, or extinguished._

_It is the choice of whether you let it live, or let it die…_

And the words die out as the rain pours from outside of a palace window.

Her golden eyes open to the world. As sudden as a snapped finger, she sees the roots that tie the trees together, the sky and earth that stretch from all corners of the globe.

But this admission has not put her in a proper mind-set. Heaven and hell wage war inside of her spirit.

And she allows the months to pass and the seasons to change. The wait brings her to a well-defined labor. The pain of her struggle in unbelievably excruciating down her lower back and groin.

The pleasure of sexual intercourse, the loss of purity, the pregnancy that occupies the feminine body, the chain of events that all lead up to this: the reality of a fertilized egg.

_Everything is connected…_

And one last forceful push brings all the effort to a close. It is like a new sun waking up in the morning sky.

But darkness is its defeat. The sun dies by nightfall, the light burns out. It exists for one single day.

The baby is a stillborn, damned to die before even greeting the earth. Its tiny spirit is sent away to exist without understanding the impurities that the soil brings forth.

She holds the result of her life's timeline in her hand. She takes in the pale blue skin, the cocooned body shaped by rigor mortis, and the closed eyes.

And the choice that nagged at her for so long, despite its true sadness, is so extraordinarily clear. From the moment the dragons died, life inside the fire went extinct. To her, this revelation shoves the dead baby aside.

_The prodigy…_

The legacy that lives on is trouble-free and simplistic, full of praise and warmth.

She kills so many by living out this life, and it leaves no sign of regret in her heart.

_Because the demon's words won over her affection…_

This is the real story of Princess Azula, a prodigy _and_ a monster. One in the same. But like a child that reabsorbs its twin, only one half of her being is to survive and shine through.

_And with one ultimate battle of insanity, she chose death over life, manipulation over virtue._

And in the end, bad seeds are always punished by a water that desiccates them, eventually forgotten.

She resides in prison now. Her skin is pale with sickness. Her hair is matted with gray. Her body, though more mature, is riddled with emaciation; her arms and legs are weak with lack of exercise.

But her face is what is most astounding. Once lofty and brilliant, it is now drawn and languished.

Those marvelous attributes, those physical things that made her beautiful have long since abandoned her for brighter lives and more deserving souls.

This is the accurate image of what the human conscience really is. The picture is blemished by a wrong decision, and it is safe to say that a debt is never left unpaid.

_One might ask her if she is ashamed, one might ask if she truly regrets._

_And she answers mutely, a wicked smile across her face…_


End file.
